


Defamed

by ErisYumi



Series: Forgiven [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Self-Loathing, dull eyes of unhappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisYumi/pseuds/ErisYumi
Summary: "The blood and sweat you sacrificedWas it all for nothing'Cause you found no sign and see no lightWe hear no voice when we pray at night"*A one shot focusing primarily on Samson's perspective after his defeat at the Temple of Mythal.





	Defamed

**Author's Note:**

> (Update note): 'Defamed' is ultimately part 1 of 'Forgiven'. I had initially written the main part of the longfic first, but then felt inspired to write a one-shot focusing on Samson's pov after his defeat at the Temple of Mythal. I hadn't intended it to be so long, but ultimately here we are. This one-shot is just angst, literally nothing but angst with a bit of self-loathing sprinkled on top.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy reading this! Don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos to let me know what you think!

As Jace and her companions emerged from the Temple of Mythal, she caught sight of the familiar colours enamelled into plate armours, and a contingent of Inquisition soldiers greeted her, the earlier hushed silence of the Temple walls fading as shouts broke over the crowd. She noted their small number, a fraction of the bulk of her army only was present there, cheering powerfully at her side as she made her way through them. As they parted before her, calls of “ _Your Worship!_ ” as well as “ _Inquisitor!_ ” resounded around her, and she lightly dipped her head in the direction of the soldiers at closest proximity to her, attentively gazing at each and every one of them so doing, a gesture she meant as a voiceless mark of respect.

Trips back always appeared shorter, they said. And yet, the trek through the density of the Arbor Wilds’ landscape appeared to stretch beyond limit. The treacherous land imposed they traverse the wilderness of the forest on foot, as no horses could tread there, and exhaustion wore down on her, slowing down her steps, her muscles sore from her last fight. A quick glance at her side, and she saw Cassandra appearing similarly exhausted, her gait no longer the energetic and springy walk which ordinarily animated her, yet the woman still stood boldly, an arm resting on the longsword’s pommel hanging at her side as her gaze scoured the area in order to prevent a potential attack.

An unclear amount of time elapsed, in which her vision swarmed with nothing but imposing vegetation and the muddy, rugged ground beneath her leather boots. At last, sounds which did not belong to the local wildlife carried back to her ears, and she heard the resounding sounds of steel, of orders being yelled in order to compensate for the surrounding noise, of banter from the troops, and the overall cacophony of camp. Pushing aside a lengthy, slanting branch from her path, Jace and her group finally stepped into the Inquisition’s encampment. She noticed, they had risen from a direction facing northward from whence they had first adventured into the forest. Initially, their arrival provoked no response as they passed unnoticed through the ranks of soldiers bordering the camp, then, a nearby woman bearing the tabard of the Inquisition over the chest piece of her armour rose her head from her makeshift seat, and whispering her name, alerted those standing nearby. The moment she did, her comrades rose up from the ground to greet her as the contingent of soldiers had at the gates of the Elvhen Temple. Jace saw soldiers emerging from tents and pace towards her, all taking up the shouts of “ _Inquisitor_ ”. The call soon began drowning out all other sounds, and from afar, Jace observed the Empress of Orlais, Célène Valmont, as well as their own ambassador and a number of dignitaries at her side turn around to observe the commotion. Sighting her among the crowd, Josephine smiled brightly at Jace and could not refrain from waving at her, a gesture —Jace guessed— she’d have never naturally allowed herself to perform. She returned the smile before heading in the ambassador’s direction.

From amongst the soldiers, Cullen emerged. “Make way!” He spread his arms wide in an attempt to restrain the swarm of soldiers approaching her group from all sides and following on their heel as they progressed to the centre of the camp where her tent and that of her advisors had been put up. Once the crowd had been jostled away, Cullen then placed himself at her side, adjusting his pace to hers. “Inquisitor, it’s good to have you back.” He allowed himself a smile, as her return could only signify one thing; Samson had been thwarted.

“Indeed.” She attempted to return the smile, yet her mouth did not curl up as it ought to, and it came out broken rather than triumphant. Cullen’s brows knitted together, and approaching her further, he lightly took hold of her arm and began escorting her back to the tents. As they walked, Jace briefly expressed what had transpired within the confines of the Temple, keeping her speech terse, and mentioning the parts which she knew Cullen would take interest in most. Behind her, her companions detached themselves from her, Cassandra cast her a quick nod as well as a brief, well-meaning smile, and she fleetingly caught sight of Cole fading within the density of the crowd. Morrigan, however, had not left Jace’s side, and had tactfully remained silent after their argument, her presence simultaneously withdrawn yet close should Jace need it.

“That monster has finally been stopped.” As they subsequently had reached the camp’s heart, Cullen had been careful not to raise his voice in his announcement, and conscientiously let Jace’s arm slid off his. At their arrival, Josephine performed a styled Orlesian bow at Jace’s attention —she lightly bowed down her head in response.

“Andraste be praised.” Josephine exclaimed at the news of Samson’s defeat, her head pleasantly tilting in the Empress’ direction, which began a downpour of carefully crafted words of praise as Orlais’ ruler congratulated her on this victory, an effective work accomplished by Andraste’s very own herald.

It would seem that, denying all claims that she had been Andraste’s chosen had served no purpose, after all.

“Thank you for these kind words, Your Radiance.” Yet, knowing the true mind of the Empress on this particular subject, Jace played along, and, remembering the education her tutors had so assiduously attempted to bestow upon her, Jace exchanged the appropriate pleasantries and words of gratitude, before Cullen interjected, interposing himself between the chatting Empress, herself and Josephine, announcing the Inquisition’s advisors should withdraw for the moment as wisdom dictate they discuss further strategies. The Empress graciously acquiesced before joining her own circle which was formed of her Champion, various dignitaries and elven servants prudently surrounding her.

Cullen eyed Leliana who had been concealed behind a patch of tents —it seemed her ears had been perked up to gather the surrounding gossips, as they usually were— gesturing at her to join them, before orienting himself towards the grand pavilion standing among the advisors’ personal tents, a pair of guard flocked before its entrance. A quick, peripheral glance indicated Josephine and Morrigan had followed close behind. A moment later, the five of them had receded into the pavilion, its flaps closing shut as the last of them stepped inside.

Within the pavilion’s centre stood a makeshift war table made of ironwood, among its surface swam various maps of the area, some of which had been bluntly sketched alongside Jace as she and her companions made their way towards the forest’s heart in frantic search of the Temple, and the latest reports stood piling up at one of its corners. It stood far from its organised, mahogany counterpart sitting at Skyhold, yet it had served them well since the moment they had erected it.  

“Tell us what happened. In details.” Placing herself on the left side of the makeshift war table, Leliana had tucked away her arms behind her back as was her habit, observant eyes falling on Jace with the keen edge which was particular to them. Beside her, Cullen stood at the centre, his hand resting atop the pommel of his sword and his body weight shifted to one leg, and Josephine had retrieved her writing board from among the sea of parchments, a quill between her fingers. Morrigan had stepped next to Jace, arms crossed and had kept her presence as discreet as before.

Jace began revisiting the flashing memories still fresh and seared within the confines of her mind, telling the events which had led to their intrusion within the Temple, sparring no details as she informed them of their witnessing Corypheus’ ability as he had insinuated himself in another’s body, then of their chance at taking a transverse path through the Temple walls, led by the ancient guardians, and at last of their fight against Samson and his defeat, followed by Morrigan drinking of the Well of Sorrows. At the mention of the Well, incredulous glances shot at Morrigan’s direction, and her advisors began exchanging looks among each other. The witch broke her silence: “Tis true, I can hear its voices whispering to me this very moment.”  Her explanations, at last, allowed the advisors to believe the tale, Leliana being the first one to. An hour more, and subsequent decisions had been taken in order to quell the chaos; orders to break camp had been ensued and communicated to the Empress and her forces, and Inquisition agents came and went in and out of the pavilion. A group of scholars both loyal to the Inquisition and the University of Orlais —Jace requested only elves be allowed, an idea she knew the Empress would support— was to linger behind in order to study the Temple’s remaining mysteries, its knowledge needing to be preserved and carried into the modern age. A contingent of soldiers would escort them, their presence necessary to weed out possible stragglers belonging to the deposed red templars and carry them out safely. Outside the pavilion, bustling sounds carried back to their ears; tents being put down, horses whinnying as they were being prepared for the journey back, fires being extinguished…

Finally, came the question of what was to become of Raleigh Samson. Cullen himself voiced the concern, not before he had suggested to leave the man to rot where he lay.

“Should we not bring him to Skyhold for questioning?” Josephine piped up. “Corypheus is still at large, we might draw useful information from him before his master tries to retrieve him.”

“Corypheus will do no such thing.” It was a furtive suspicion Jace had. They had witnessed the ancient magister fly in their direction in his mad pursuit for the Well, entirely ignoring his general trampled on the stone-and-marble ground. “We will bring him back to Skyhold for judgement.” She announced, her voice clear, her words' echo ringing within the cramped space.

“Then I propose a group of our soldiers escort him back with us to Skyhold. He has earned _that_ much.” It was Cullen’s turn to speak, a determined frown deeply nestled between his brows.

“Samson has given us no end of troubles. Let’s put him to sleep before we do so.” Jace caught sight of the nigh imperceptible gesture Josephine had performed in Leliana’s direction when she had began speaking, as if to restrain her were she to speak of murder once again. The gesture quickly died down as she realised what the woman was proposing .

Jace acquiesced at both their suggestions. “Cullen, send a group of your finest soldiers after the scholars to retrieve Samson.” Then, she turned to her spymaster. “Leliana, when they return, your agents will administer him sleeping draughts to secure him. We return to Skyhold as soon as he’s in our hands.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Exclaiming their accord, their voice was unanimous, apart from Morrigan’s who had not joined hers to theirs since she had last spoken.

As they all came to an agreement, the five of them stepped outside the pavilion to ensure preparations to depart were underway.

— ✦ —

Samson woke to aching coursing throughout his body and his head throbbing, the sensations growing in intensity as he drifted back to consciousness and the awareness of his tense muscles snatching him away from his torpor. His eyes flickered open to piercing, blinding sunlight searing into his retina, forcing his head to the side as he blinked rapidly to chase away the luminous rays.

He cast a quick, darting glance around him, and the rough oscillation of the cart he found himself on reverberated all the way to his bones. As he saw light slanting through large leaves, dappling the ground, smelled the scent of his blood through that of the dirt, heard the same strange chirping sounds as before, and lastly spotted a pair of horsemen following the cart before his eyes, a single word formed in his mind.

_The Well. The Well!_ He knew then, that he was being transported away from the Temple. Lost. It was _lost_. It had escaped him. it had been his sole chance, and it had escaped him.

A grunt escaped him as he brusquely attempted to prop himself up on his arm in order to let his gaze look back, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Temple itself. At that same instant, he sensed the cart hit a rugged area beneath him, and the fragile balance of his arm was lost to him, shoving him back hard against the cart’s surface, his trail of thought interrupted as wisps of light swarmed his vision, accentuating the pulse at the back of his skull. Samson let out a pained groan, and bitter disappointment made its bed within him once he elected to remain where he laid, hoping the physical sensations would subside. _He had let it slip out of his grasp_. The single piece of the puzzle he had been tasked to retrieve, the last obstacle that had stood between them and the final triumph, this one _blighted_ thing, and Samson had been incapable of performing such a simple task. A foul sensation descended on him, enveloped him, seeping into his veins and giving him the urge to vomit. His expression twisted in disgust, and he shifted his body weight to the side, away from the horsemen riding behind him, before attempting to sink his head within his hands. A loud, clinking sound reached his ears at that instant, and dipping his head low, Samson realised his wrists had been manacled in heavy chains. He wondered how he had not sensed their weight prior to this. He hadn’t had time to reset his priorities and care about his own well-being first.

Samson examined himself further, as he observed his legs had been restrained by chains as well, he realised they had spared no expenses on him. The shine to them indicated silverite, too. The better part of his armour, down to his greaves was coated in blood of unknown origin, though most was likely his as the plate had been slashed at and nicked in various places. Some of the blood was already drying up, its colour morphing into a mousy shade, some of it visibly fresh still. There was nothing accompanying him on the cart, and aside from the surrounding soldiers settled on their horses, Samson was alone.

_The lyrium_. As the realisation struck him, his mind frantically trailed back, recounted the minutes, the hours. He had last drunk of the red upon entering the Temple, tossing the empty vial in the lake bordering its entrance.

_Damn it_.

Samson berated himself for his mistake. He had intended to return to camp swiftly afterward, his comrades-in-arms accompanying him back triumphant, inhibited access to the crimson liquid awaiting the lot of them.

The cart made a sharp turn, and the force propelled him against its edge, his head banging against the surface, discontinuing the flow of his thoughts and he found himself struggling to maintain his grip on reality as his eyes slipped shut against his will.

When his thoughts scrambled back together, the familiar clamour of camp reached him, the realisation jolting him up as another shower of lights swam against his vision once again at the brusque motion. Surrounding him were soldiers bearing the Inquisition’s coat-of-arms, a smaller number displaying that the of the Empire of Orlais, a golden lion emblazoned against breastplates, all rushing in different directions in decisive strides, different tasks occupying them all. This was nothing of the boisterous army his scouts had reported, the bulk of it seemed to have packed up and departed long before his arrival. Relief seeped into his bones; not many would find themselves witnessing his shame, then.

Samson forced himself in a sitting position in spite of the throbbing still fiercely present at the back of his skull, his chains rattling and trailing against the wooden surface. He had been pressed near a clutch of tents, their size largely surpassing that of the remaining ones scattered across the ghost of the camp. He could already guess at who they belonged to, but he had no wish to think of it now. Yet, in his sneaking suspicion, the very woman he had battled against less than a few hours ago appeared in his line of sight, still in her battered battlemage armour.

His stomach twisted in knots as cold fury rose within him, and he tilted his head, redirecting his gaze elsewhere. His hands curled up into fists around his manacles as visions of his templars being butchered flooded his mind, and he sensed the chains’ rings dig deep into his skin, already guessing at the mark they would leave. He had rallied his templars to him, enjoining them to rush to the Well and discard any other detail — _they had been so close_ — yet it had not sufficed, he had caught sight of each of them as well-placed arrows fell them one following the other, as he imposed on himself to turn his head away from the pooling bodies behind his back and push ever forward.

Clanking sounds resounded as Samson’s hands crawled towards his head, his hands knotting in his thinning hair.

The fury faded and transformed as guilt tore away at him.

Samson forgot about any need for dignity, the turmoil within him gripping him and clutching at him, and his body slumped down against the wooden surface as he attempted to shield his face away from prying eyes. Releasing his tense hold on the manacles, he looked down on his hands, at the red bruises splayed across his skin. It had been _his_ doing. The wasted lives of his Templars, each of their existence negated throughout the months, the years his crusade had swallowed up, their furious sacrifice rendered to naught. He had been the one to lead them all to that point, he had seen in their eyes the belief they placed in him, how devotedly they had followed suit. Their minds had aligned with his, his resentment shared and moulded into a common goal, yet he had been the one to kindle their frustration into bursting flames. It had laid within his hands to lead them to triumph, yet all he had accomplish is leading them to their destruction and mutilation. His hands clutched more tightly at his own hair.

Peripherally, he observed as the last pockets of soldiers mounted their horses and rode away, the camp clearing from traces of human settlements and returning to its previous wild state.

His attention turned to his armour. Had Maddox still been of this world, he would have been capable of remastering the blighted thing for him, Samson would have entered the boy’s workshop and found him plunged on armour pieces, working them with the unique focus characteristic of tranquils and transforming them into another of his masterworks. His armour had always been a curse dressed as a blessing, donning it both a torture and a reward as Samson would drown in unendurable pain, the lyrium it had been alloyed with biting down on every inch of his skin as he gritted his teeth and steeled himself in wait of the immeasurable strength that would meet him at the end, the kind that should have paved the way to victory. The kind that had been taken away in a fraction of seconds. Samson no longer felt its constant pulse against him, proof of its potency. Had Maddox still been present, he would have greeted Samson in his habitually cold and apathetic tone —one that had always made him flinch, but that he had grown accustomed to nonetheless— and prepared to begin his task, the application of his skills allowing them all to persist in their chase, an indispensable pillar of their goal. And his friend. Had he still been here, he would have still stood as the last thread linking him to his old life, back in Kirkwall.

He began clenching his hands, wringing them as a lump welled in his throat, tightening and choking him, and Samson recoiled within himself. He prayed no one would take notice, he prayed their hatred of him would lead them to avoiding him and remain far away.

He prayed.

_Maker_.

_Maker, please_.

No. Except there was no Maker. There never had been any Maker to answer his call, there never had been anyone to find him when the need stung at him in the drawn out hours of the night. There never had been anyone. Raging at the Maker was pointless.

Corypheus himself had forsaken him. That burned away at him. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the awareness this would happen had sat there, nestled within him like a perpetually murmuring, quiet voice, cautioning him and reminding him of the truth. Being chosen among all the devoted templars the ancient being could have picked from had provoked an elation in him which pushed him to soar to heights he hadn’t reached in decades. Like everything, that impression had likely been his own doing, whether these feelings had risen to salvage his broken heart, or whether they had carried an ounce of truth, it didn’t matter anymore. The elation was gone, now, evaporated in the wind, replaced by searing guilt and a caustic sense of defeat instead. He had been deserted once again, as he had been booted from the Order. He had been ditched another time. He had returned to being nobody. Nothing. He was _nothing_.

And he had failed. For all his frantic pursuit of the Well and the power that lay within, he had been thwarted within an inch of victory. It had almost laid within reach, as if he stretching out his arm was all that was required to attain it, the final piece, the last trek towards his goals. His thoughts travelled to the like-minded templars who had united with him, to the magelings he had helped smuggle out of Kirkwall. He had only wished to pave the way for them; if but one mage could be guarded against the fate Maddox had suffered, if but one templar, like him, could be avoided the streets and the thirst, then he would have willingly paid any price. He glanced down on his stained hands, at his broken armour, then he glimpsed at the grand pavilion facing him directly being torn down. He had poured and poured and poured, he had poured out his blood and his sweat, he had worked himself to exhaustion, crossed the continent and struggled to implement his templars as a force to be reckoned with, one that had the power imperative to unroot the source of his unrest and anguish, he had poured out his heart for this. It all had been pointless. As the realisation dawned on him, he felt rivulets running down the bridge of his nose, then down his cheeks before it splattered against the wooden surface he laid on. He had killed himself over nothing. Someone else had succeeded at his own venture better than he ever had. The corpses of his comrades wouldn’t stop flashing before his eyes, now, their blood pooling on marble floors, staining turfs, fountaining against polished, ornate armours.

He had wished to behave as the sort of leader he believed the templars needed, yet he had failed in that regard, too.

Failed. Failed. Failed. _He had failed_.

It all had amounted to nothing.

He was a failure.

He had braced himself for this sacrifice. He had been prepared to don the armour and wield his greatsword, he had mentally steeled himself for all the blood spilled over this cause, his or that of his templars.

Yet what had that yielded, at the end? Nothing.

His venture had been pointless.

He huffed a laugh, sick and hysterical. The fire which had animated him, fuelling him, for months, for years, had been extinguished, snuffed away like candlelight and leaving smothering ashes in its path. Scattered bouts of laughter continued to escape him through gritted teeth, spent until it died off and a numbness enveloped him. Instead of roaring flames, he felt as if he had sunk below water, and it seeped within every inch of him. He felt the strength evaporate from his muscles, the tension accumulated dissipating, and his eyes glazed over the broken down camp.

Brusquely, he felt the cart teeter dangerously. The sudden motion barely startled him, his heart only skipping a beat before settling to its usual rhythm. He heard a thump, and a figure appeared in front of him, as if it had materialised out of thin air.

His head remaining in place, Samson eyed the person crouching back on its hunches before him. He looked like a young boy, barely a man, the brim of a large, tattered hat shielding his eyes, and underneath them he discerned a few locks of mousy blond hair. Reflectively, his mind began reviewing the intelligence he had garnered, and could not match any of his information to the youth before him.

The boy stretched out his arm, and gently deposed his hand on Samson’s hair.

Then, the boy began singing:

“ _Bare your blade, and raise it high_

_Stand your ground, the dawn will come_

_The night is long, and the path is dark_

_Look to the sky, for one day soon_

_The dawn will come_ ”

Confusion formed in his mind like a cloud. The Chant of Light. A fragment of it, anyway. He had had to study the Chant for years before joining the order, and this passage had belonged to the most essential parts they all had learned. It was a prayer —Samson snorted derisively at the irony— as well as an answer, it had always been painted as a glimmer of hope in time of need. Something flinched within him, an almost insignificant ache, yet it was not enough to sway the numbness. The boy’s voice had cracked when reaching different notes, and yet his voice was soft, almost childlike, and carried an undertone of kindness he could not ignore. Samson lifted his head, a nigh imperceptible motion, just a bare inch away from the surface he had been laying on, his eyes falling on the boy’s shielded face.

“There is someone who wants to answer you.”

His voice had been an innocent whisper, but before Samson had time to open his mouth, the boy vanished as he had appeared, as if swallowed up by air itself. His head slumped down on the cart once more, a distinguishable sound resounding from the movement. Samson’s eyes began losing their focus again, and aimlessly trailed across the muddy ground.

Peripherally, he spotted Trevelyan again, accompanied with an Antivan looking woman and a hooded figure, passing through his field of vision. Then, a phrase reached his ears, partially muffled in the dying clamour. “ _Not necessary._ ” Samson could not make out any other words, though he suspected he knew who the voice belonged to.

The tents had been put down, and there remained no traces of the camp which had once stood here.

The cart vacillated once again, slanting forward. This time, the hooded woman he had sighted a moment ago had sat beside him. He distinguished red hair tucked away in the recesses of the hood, and sharp eyes met his. _Sister Nightingale_.

“Will you resist?”

Samson was not certain what she meant, yet he did not bother with a reply. His eyes fell back to the ground, glazing over the surrounding landscape.

“I will take that as a no.” He heard a sigh coming from her, and then her hand gripped his jaw a split second afterward, a firm grip against his skin. He did not bother resisting. Her other hand drew closer, an uncapped vial in it containing a clear, pale liquid. The woman emptied its content down his throat, and Samson did what was expected of him. He searched within himself, but could not find an ounce of panic arising. Her hold still inflexible on him, his eyes followed her hand as they reached into her belt, another vial emerging from it and drawing closer to him once more. Again, Samson did what was expected of him. Then, she let go of him, and as the cart returned to its upright position, left and disappeared from his sight.

He did not bother with constructing intricate scenarios woven with concern over what would become of him. Perhaps they intended to kill him this instant, perhaps they intended to delay the task for later. The latter idea seemed likelier. It did not matter. As his thoughts gradually grew more lethargic, Samson found he had no concern over his safety. The others had perished, why should it make any difference what would become of him? He realised a moment afterward that his eyes had slipped shut, and forming a coherent thought turned into a difficult task, one he did not bother with, and his mind slipped away, a sensation he welcomed with open arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I appreciate it a lot!
> 
> I went into this work with the headcanon that "The Dawn will Come" is a part of the Chant of Light, as, after Haven, the amassed crowd begins singing as one, the lyrics seemingly already assimilated by everyone. I also felt as if the verse featured here fitted Samson particularly.


End file.
